


The Price of Fixing a Shingle

by tsukinobara



Series: Dillinger's Got Nothing on Us [3]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Actually kind of gen, Community: insmallpackages, Historical AU, M/M, Oh my god so much research
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-25
Updated: 2011-03-25
Packaged: 2017-10-17 06:45:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/174032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsukinobara/pseuds/tsukinobara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen is stuck in the house with a sprained ankle he can't walk on.  It's a good thing Jared's around to take care of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Price of Fixing a Shingle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [embroiderama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/embroiderama/gifts).



> Written (unknowingly!) for embroiderama for [this prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/insmallpackages/1137.html?thread=68465#t68465) \- "J2, gentle h/c on a cold night".

_outside Flagstaff, AZ  
January 1935_

Two days ago, Jensen fell off the roof.

He likes to think of it more as "slid off the roof" - "fell" sounds too dramatic for what actually happened, which was that he was trying to fix some shingles that had come loose, lost his grip, and literally slid sideways down the slope of the roof to land on his ass on the ground. And because the temperature dropped to freezing every night, the ground was hard and cold. And he just sat there for a few minutes, catching his breath and feeling kind of clumsy, until he tried to stand up and realized he'd hurt his ankle because it couldn't hold his weight, and then he felt _really_ clumsy. And stupid. And a little embarrassed, because he had to yell for Jared - and shove the dogs away when they came running instead - and wait to be hauled up off the ground and practically carried inside the house.

Jared's immediate solution was to bundle Jensen into the car and drive him into town to find a doctor, who poked and prodded and ignored Jensen grinding his teeth with pain, and finally proclaimed "It's just a sprain. Stay off it for a week." He wrapped Jensen's ankle, loaned him a pair of crutches, and sent the boys on their way.

The crutches were uncomfortable and awkward and made Jensen feel like an invalid, and yesterday Jared took them away when Jensen tripped over a chair and then almost fell down the front steps trying to get out of the house.

And now Jared has gone back to town to return them to the doctor and because the sky has been threatening snow and they're almost out of supplies - why they didn't stock up two days ago is a mystery, especially since Jensen made Jared stop at a pharmacy to buy the biggest bottle of Bayer aspirin that he could find - and Jensen is without crutches and unable to travel any farther than he can hop on one foot, and he's feeling sorry for himself because he's cooped up in the house and he's bored and his ankle hurts.

And he wants some hot cocoa. And he wants Jared to come home.

The sun has set and he's practicing standing on both feet - unsuccessfully, and his swearing is confusing the dogs - when he hears the car pull up outside and Jared call his name. He's halfway between the kitchen table and the sofa when Jared comes in and tells him to sit the hell down, doesn't he want his ankle to heal?

"I'm trying," he mutters, falling onto the sofa. "What took you so long?"

"I brought you a present." Jared sets the box he's carrying down on the table, rummages around in it, and pulls out a tin of cocoa powder and a bottle of milk. He must be a mind reader. He grins and Jensen wants to kiss him, except Jared would have to come to him because he can't really go anywhere. "Dinner first, though. Stay there."

Jensen was not consciously planning to get up, but his ass is half off the sofa anyway. Apparently it's an instinct that common sense and ankle sprain can't immediately override. He sits.

Jared assembles dinner - chicken left over from last night, biscuits, some apples he picked up on his supply run - and brings Jensen's plate and a jam jar of water over to the couch. Sitting on the plate are a couple of aspirin. Jensen swallows those first. They don't really help, but he needs to feel like he's at least trying to alleviate his ankle pain.

(When they bought the house it was a one-room structure with a lean-to, and they've been more concerned with fixing it up, adding a bedroom, and buying some furniture than purchasing real glasses. At least they invested in plates and silverware.)

Jared feeds the dogs, but getting their own dinners doesn't stop them from begging shamelessly for some chicken. Jared chatters about this and that - the weather and the car, mostly - while the boys eat, and after they're finished he puts the plates in the sink, heats up some milk, and makes cocoa for both of them. To Jensen's cup, he adds a generous splash of good Kentucky bourbon.

"Should I be drinking on top of aspirin?" Jensen asks, although the question is really rhetorical. Two Bayer and a shot of Kentucky's finest are not going to kill him.

"How's your foot?" Jared asks in return.

"Hurts when I try to move it. Aches the rest of the time."

"You want some more bourbon?"

Jensen sips his cocoa, tastes the burn of the alcohol under the heat of the milk, and shakes his head. Hopefully it will help him sleep. It's getting late enough for him to think about whether or not his ankle will keep him up, how much he's going to toss and turn trying to find a comfortable position, and whether or not he'll keep Jared awake too.

It's also late enough to be cold, even with the stove going. (The house had a fireplace when they bought it, but the chimney was in such bad shape it turned out to be easier and cheaper to pull it down than to fix it up.) Jared fetches a pillow and the quilt off their bed, drops the pillow on a kitchen chair, drags it over, and arranges Jensen so he's sitting almost sideways on the sofa with his wrapped ankle propped up on the chair. And then Jared settles next to and behind him and wraps his arms around Jensen's chest, pulling the quilt around both of them. Jensen leans back against him. Jared presses a kiss to the side of his head.

"Ok?" he asks. Jensen nods. "I didn't mean to be gone so long. I went to the post office and Mrs Hardy said they might be running electricity out here in the spring. We'll get a radio."

"And a record player."

"We'll electrify the barn too. We can turn on all the lights and scare the coyotes. Maybe put the radio by the front door and blast it the next time the President's on. Although with our luck, they'll be Democrats and they'll just sit and listen to him."

Jensen chuckles at the mental image of coyotes sitting in the front yard, listening attentively to one of Roosevelt's fireside chats. He settles deeper into Jared's arms. He's warm and cozy like this, even though his ankle is throbbing and the quiet is unsettling. He's lived in cities his entire life, and he doesn't know if he'll ever really appreciate the rural winter silence, now that every sane creature has either hibernated or gone south. He prefers the warmer months, when they can hear insects and wild animals and hopefully soon, horses. The dogs are both curled up by the stove where it's warm, so even they are quiet.

"Keep talking," Jensen says. "I don't care what you talk about. It's too quiet out here."

So Jared tells him about Mrs Hardy in the post office, and the grocer's son who thinks Jared is the most interesting person ever, and the pretty Indian woman waiting with her husband while the attendant filled their car at the gas station, and the two astronomers he ran into - literally - outside the grocery store and the conversation they had about looking at the winter sky versus looking the summer sky, and the little old lady walking her four tiny white dogs into Babbitt Brothers. Jared talks about the roads and the tourists and the ranching business and what they'll be able to plant when the ground thaws and whether or not they should get another dog and "Jensen? Are you still awake?"

Jensen guesses that question is because he hasn't said a word, hasn't even moved. "Yeah."

"I thought you were asleep."

Jensen just shrugs. "I kinda like sitting like this," he says. Jared's arms tighten around him. Jensen lets his head fall back. He's slid a little bit down the sofa, so if he leans back and turns his head, he can press his face into Jared's neck. _I love you_ , he wants to say. _The only reason I haven't shot my foot off out of boredom and pain is because of you._ But he guesses Jared already knows that.

"Come on," Jared says, turning his head and kissing Jensen's temple. "Let's go to bed."

Jensen shifts so Jared can stand up first, and then allows himself to be pulled to his feet. (Well, foot.) It's cold without Jared's body heat or the quilt to keep him warm. He slings his arm around Jared's shoulders and hops into the bedroom, where he lets Jared help him get ready for bed.

It's dark in the room, but they've done this enough times - gotten ready for bed in this house - that they don't need much light. Jared arranges the blankets and the quilt and waits until Jensen has found a comfortable position before climbing into bed as well.

"If I have to stay in this house any longer, I'm going to lose my mind," Jensen says, when they're both settled. Jared is a warm, comforting presence next to him. "I wish you hadn't taken the crutches back."

"You would've just fallen over and hurt yourself worse," Jared tells him.

"So you did it for my protection, huh?"

"Always." Jared leans in and kisses Jensen on the mouth. He flops onto his back and Jensen stretches out next to him, his head against Jared's shoulder, his arm across Jared's chest, his knee bent so his injured ankle is resting on his own shin. Jared reaches for his hand under the blankets and laces their fingers together. "We'll go for a drive tomorrow," he says. "Get you out of the house."

"Thank you."

"Wake me up if your ankle starts bothering you."

Jensen wants to say no, he's not going to do that, but he's too tired and too comfortable and his eyes are closing, and he mumbles something that could be "No" and could be "Love you" and could be "Fucking roof", and then he's asleep.


End file.
